Tuesday in the Rain with Bear
by LindaO
Summary: Sequel to "Backing Up." Finch is safe, but snappish and unappreciative. Christine Fitzgerald has a big bruise on her face and a not-entirely-convincing story about how she got it. Bear makes his first rescue and obviously expects his master to take care of her. And it's raining. John Reese is just not having a good day. But it might get better, with a little help from his friends.
1. Chapter 1

The third time Finch stepped over Bear on his way to re-shelve one of his precious first editions, there was an ominous growl.

Reese looked up from his own book. He was sprawled on the leather couch, relaxed. He'd offered to help with the relocation – the most valuable books were being moved to less dog-accessible heights — but Finch had snarled that he wanted it done _correctly_. John was pretty sure he should have been offended, but he was actually perfectly happy to spend the afternoon doing nothing. Finch was safe. Nothing else really mattered.

But the growl troubled him. Bear didn't growl unless he was seriously provoked.

The dog, however, was still lying on the rug, with his eyes open but his head down.

_Finch_ was the one who had growled.

Reese sighed, sat up and put his book down. It had been two days since he's half-carried Finch out of the train station. The computer genius was still unsettled. He was jumpy, anxious, irritable. Cranky.

Reese's instinct was to stay close to him. But he knew from experience that the recluse recovered better when he was left by himself. That had been true after Will Ingram had been kidnapped — both times — and on numerous other occasions. Finch needed downtime, and for him that meant being completely alone.

He wasn't going to go far, Reese decided, but he could give Finch a few hours. He stood up, went into one of the side rooms, and changed into sweat pants and a t-shirt. Then he returned to the couch to put his running shoes on.

Finch glanced at him. "It's going to storm, you know."

"I won't melt in the rain."

"No, but you might if you're struck by lightning."

Reese considered this. "We'll find a place to shelter if it gets bad."

Finch merely grunted and went back to his precious books. John got Bear's leash and they headed for the door. He paused at the top of the steps and looked back. Finch seemed more relaxed already.

It stung, just a little. After all he'd gone through to get his friend back — but Harold had been a recluse most of his life, and what Root had done had just made his insular impulses worse. There was no sense in being offended by what couldn't be helped.

Bear seemed happy to be out of the library for a while, anyhow. John jogged fairly slowly to start, letting them both warm up. Then he picked up the pace. The dog had no trouble keeping up.

The clouds were heavy and low over the city, and the windy was gusty in his face. It was a little chilly until he got warmed up. But once he was moving, his light fleece jacket was just right.

Lightning flickered to the east. Thunder rumbled softly, a good fifteen seconds behind.

It was mid-afternoon on a Tuesday, but the threatening skies had thinned out the pedestrian traffic. Reese kept off the main streets, and they moved through the city easily. He could feel his own tensions draining away as he ran. Finch was safe in his library. He would settle down, regain his emotional balance. A new Number would come. Their operation would continue. Everything was as it should be. For now.

Besides the trauma of the kidnapping, John knew, Finch was also deeply concerned about the level of cooperation the Machine had shown. He had made Reese go through the dialog several times, and he'd called up the various surveillance tapes and watched them repeatedly. The Machine's response was gnawing at Finch's mind. But if he had to do it over again, John thought, he wouldn't do anything differently. It had worked. It had helped bring Finch home.

Still, if the Machine was starting to reprogram itself to protect its creator …

He stopped that line of thought. If it was, there was nothing John could do about it. _You built it, Finch. Did you really think it wouldn't be smart?_ He concentrated for a moment on his pace and his breathing. He glanced down at the dog. Bear was still keeping up, but he was about at the end of his endurance for running. Reese shook his head. Whatever the Aryan Brothers had done with the dog, they hadn't tended to his conditioning properly. The dogs he'd worked with overseas could run for half a day. He pushed it five more blocks, then dropped down to a brisk walk. He was pleased by how quickly the dog recovered from the exertion. But they would need to run every day, if possible, to get Bear back into shape.

Regular exercise and mental stimulation would also eliminate some of the dog's chewing behavior. Hopefully.

It occurred to John that he ought to make some effort to find Bear's rightful owner. Then he brushed the thought away. He was the dog's rightful owner now, and that was the end of it.

It was nice not to be looking for anyone for a change. He wasn't following a woman or protecting a man or concealing a child. That didn't stop him from observing things, of course. The couple huddled in the doorway was making up after an argument. The man walking on the other side of the street with his hands in his pockets was very late for something. The circle of young men were trying to figure out how much money they had between them. Nothing, at the moment, was a threat. It was all just exercise, and John could feel his tension continued to recede.

The thunder rumbled, much closer.

The wind shifted suddenly. Reese turned his head and caught the freshening breeze full in the face. He could hear the rain coming in with it. He didn't mind the rain, really, but he saw no reason not to keep his word to Finch. If he and Bear waited out the storm somewhere, it was that much more time Finch had to himself. He looked around. There was an upscale restaurant across the street with a large covered patio. They wouldn't let him take Bear inside, but since the patio was completely deserted, he doubted anyone would mind if he sat there. He shortened up his grip on the leash and turned to cross the street.

Bear pulled back so hard that he nearly yanked the leash out of Reese's hand.

John stopped. The dog continued to strain toward an alley. His whole body was rigid, intent on whatever he thought was down there. Bear didn't chase cats, had never shown much interest in rodents, and didn't root in the trash. But something had caught his eyes or ears or nose. "Forget it," Reese told him. "Come on." He tugged on the leash.

Bear looked over his shoulder at him, but he did not return to his side.

John straightened up and snapped, "_Foei_!"

The dog shrank down, almost hunkered. Then he straightened and lunged toward the alley again.

This wasn't a power struggle, Reese recognized. Whatever was down there, Bear thought it was important. Important enough to defy the Alpha over.

He dropped his hand into his jacket pocket, closed his fingers around the familiar weight of his smallest gun. Then he moved toward the dog. Bear trotted into the alley as quickly as the leash would allow. He went directly to the third trash can, jumped up and scrabbled at the lid with his paws.

"Bear, no!" Reese barked. He was annoyed now, but also curious. He hadn't seen the dog behave like this before.

The lid came off the can with a clatter, and before John could pull him away, Bear had toppled the can itself. He pawed through the trash frantically.

"Bear!" John said again. He snapped the leash. The dog yelped and dropped onto his belly. "Come!"

The dog remained on his stomach on the ground. He looked back toward the trash can and whined. His anxiety was obvious.

John frowned at him. This wasn't Bear rooting for a meaty bone or a half-rotted fish. The dog had gone right off the damn reservation. "What?" he demanded. "What's in that can that's so damn tasty, huh?"

Bear looked at him hopefully and whined again.

"Fine. Go get it." He moved a little closer, to leave some slack in the leash.

The dog dove cheerfully back into the trash can. If he's got a skunk, Reese thought belatedly, I am seriously going to regret this.

A fat raindrop splashed onto his cheek. Reese looked up, and more rain fell onto his face and onto the pavement around them. "Damn it, Bear …"

The dog yipped happily and scooted backward out of the can. He had something in his mouth, something small and gray.

"If I'm getting soaked for a damn rat, I am not going to be happy," Reese warned. He crouched on his heels. "Give it here, Bear." He held his hand out.

The dog looked at him for a long moment.

"L_aat af vallen_," Reese insisted.

Reluctantly, but with something that looked like trust and chagrin in his eyes, Bear lowered his muzzle and gently dropped the gray object into Reese's outstretched hand.

It was a big mouse, or maybe a small rat, and it was dead.

"Bear ..." Reese began.

The dog looked at him hopefully, whined, and licked the fuzzy object.

It moved, just a little.

The rain began to pelt down sharply. Reese hunched forward, shielding the creature with his body. It wasn't a mouse. It was a kitten, completely gray, so tiny that its eyes were still closed. It was cold, motionless, and filthy. But it wasn't quite dead.

Reese looked up at the dog. "Are you kidding me?"

The dog wagged his tail, nuzzled the little creature with his nose. Whined again. Then he sat down and looked at John expectantly.

"What exactly am I supposed to do with this?" John asked. He turned the tiny thing in his hand. Nose to tail it was no bigger than two of his fingers. He could feel the tiny bones of its ribs. He could have killed it just by closing his hand tightly. It was a testament to Bear's care and training that the dog hadn't accidentally crushed it between his teeth.

Rain ran down Reese's face and dripped off his nose. He moved his hand quickly to keep the kitten dry. He tucked it into his T-shirt pocket, then stood up and zipped his jacket nearly to the top. But the jacket was nearly soaked anyhow; it wouldn't do much to keep the kitten dry.

"Are there any more?" John asked.

Bear stood up and looked at him eagerly. Evidently there weren't.

"I don't have time to nurse a kitten, Bear. I barely have time to deal with you."

The dog cocked his head, then shook it. Water flew off his fur.

He thought briefly about taking the kitten to Finch. But with his current mood, his employer was likely to revoke both John's man card and his library privileges. Hired assassins didn't rescue tiny kittens, and reclusive billionaire geniuses did not nurse them back to health. Although Finch had proven surprisingly adept with Leila —

There was a world of difference between a human child and a kitten.

Reese wasn't even sure that his friend liked cats.

He was absolutely a dog person himself.

Bear peered up at him through the now-driving rain. His brown eyes were filled with absolutely confidence in his master.

Reese rolled his options through his mind. Someone who had spare time, or at least flexible time. That ruled out Dr. Tillman and Andrea Gutierrez. And Carter. And Fusco. Leila's grandparents would have a heart attack if he turned up at their door. Judge Gates and his son didn't seem like cat people. He needed someone nurturing, so Zoe Morgan was out; he doubted she could nurture a cactus. That left …

Lighting flashed, and the thunder cracked almost directly above them. Reese rubbed his forehead. He needed to get all of them out of the rain. Somewhere warm and dry, and preferably with good coffee.

"Ahhh," Reese said aloud. The answer was obvious. It was Tuesday. She should be home by now. Back in the country, anyhow. He nodded thoughtfully. Bear shook his whole body again. "All right, boy. Let's go find your baby a new home."

He zipped his coat a little further and started out briskly. Bear, not surprisingly, stayed right beside him.


	2. Chapter 2

The Chaos Café was open, but nearly empty. Reese went in the front door with the dog at his heels. Zubek, the big barista, looked at the dog, started to protest, then just shrugged. Reese looked around, but he didn't see Christine Fitzgerald. "Scottie home?" he asked. Nearly everyone who knew Christine called her Scottie, but Finch didn't, so Reese didn't.

"Upstairs." Zubec gestured towards the elevator. "Maybe you can talk some sense into her. I'm getting too damn old for this shit."

"Okay." John had no idea what the man was talking about. But he hated to admit something like that, so he didn't. Whatever the woman was up to, Reese could hear about it from her. He led the dog onto the little elevator and closed it. Bear sat politely at his feet and looked up at him hopefully. "Yeah, we're here," Reese told him. "Now behave yourself. I don't even know if she likes dogs."

He didn't know a lot of things about Christine Fitzgerald, Reese reflected. He's spent one afternoon with her, saving her life from porn dealers and CIA part-time assassins. You could learn important things about a person when their life was in danger, but not the more trivial details. He knew she was smart and brave and that she trusted Finch completely. But he didn't know if she liked cats. Or dogs.

Finch knew her better. The genius had taken her to lunch at least four times since her Number had come up. Reese had followed them on two of those dates, listened to every word they said. But cats and dogs had not been discussed.

Still, Reese's instinct said this was the right play.

On the top floor, he opened the elevator gate and stepped into the little lobby. The big steel security door opened before they got there. Christine waited just inside; she had two big towels over her arm. Reese was surprised, until he remembered that she'd probably been watching his approach for ten blocks on her various camera feeds. Like Finch, she was unusually fond of surveillance.

"Hey," Christine said. She stepped back while he and Bear entered the apartment, then closed the door and turned, held one towel out to him.

Reese felt his breath catch. Fury rose through his body like a wave. "What the hell happened to you?" he demanded.

It wasn't really a question. He could see perfectly well what had happened to her: Someone had hit her, hard. Her right cheek was bruised deep purple from her jaw to her cheekbone. It was red at the edges and still swollen toward the center; it was probably 24 hours old. It was low enough that her eye wasn't injured, but the cartilage at the front of her ear was definitely swollen as well.

"It's okay," Christine attempted to assure him.

"No," John answered sternly, "it's not." He brought his hand up carefully, feathered his fingertips along the bottom of her jaw, not quite touching the bruise. He tried to keep the rage out of his voice, and failed utterly. "_Who hit you?"_

At his feet, Bear bristled. Without looking down, Reese held his free hand out, palm down. The dog sat, but remained highly alert.

Christine brought her own hand came up and wrapped it lightly around his wrist. She didn't try to restrain him, or even to take his hand away. She just wanted to comfort him. And though Reese could see that she knew he was livid, he could also see that she still wasn't afraid of him. She never had been.

"Some guy at the airport." She met his eyes squarely. "Didn't Fusco tell you?"

He hadn't, and Reese planned a very short and pointed talk with the detective about that. "Where do I find him?"

"The guy from the airport? He's in jail." She smiled, but it looked like it hurt to do it.

"Christine … "

She cocked her head. "Lionel really didn't tell you, did he? He was blowin' up my phone at the crack of dawn."

"I haven't had a chance to talk to him," he answered curtly.

"Baggage pick-up at LaGuardia," she explained swiftly, "there was a guy 'disciplining' his toddler. I asked him to stop. The child abuse laws in this country? They suck. Strike a child violently in front of fifty people and the court will go all mealy-mouthed about parental rights and discipline and crap. But back-fist a total stranger in the same setting and you're on your way to jail." The quirky painful smile returned. "And if you just got out of prison for dealing drugs and your parole officer in Ohio finds out you got popped in New York on a flight from Mexico, you're going to jail until your kid's big enough to hit you back."

Reese studied her cheek and then her eyes again. His fury began to wane. Far from feeling like a victim, Christine seemed to be downright pleased with herself. "You provoked him."

"Damn right I did."

"You're going to get yourself killed."

"I know where to pick my fights."

She squeezed his wrist, then dropped her hand away. He lowered his. "You should keep ice on it," John grumbled.

"Hour on, hour off, I know. I'm fine, John. Really. And I'm sorry you trudged all the way over here in the rain about this. You could have just called."

Reese shook his head. Christine simply assumed that he — or Finch, more likely — had already known about the incident. And under normal circumstances she would have been right. Evidently Fusco had gotten flagged on the arrest report; normally Finch would have intercepted it. But nothing was normal with Finch right now. "That's not actually why I'm here," he admitted. "I need a favor."

"Sure." She studied him a little closer. He had the feeling she was reading way too much in his face. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

"Random's okay?"

Random, he thought. She'd called Finch that from their first meeting at the café, and Reese had no idea why. "He's fine."

"Good." Christine handed him the towel she'd offered before, then dropped to her knees beside Bear. "Hello, sweetie," she said warmly. She draped the other towel over his back and began to dry his fur.

Reese watched closely, aware that the dog was still on edge. Bear wouldn't act without a command, but he was definitely anxious. "He's a trained attack dog."

Christine glanced up at him. "Of course he is." John amended his earlier guess. She knew dogs, and liked them well enough. She knelt in front of Bear, but slightly off to the side, not directly in his face, not forcing eye contact. Not challenging him. She moved briskly but not too fast, firm but not rough. She was calm, Reese thought, and unafraid. The dog visibly relaxed.

John unfolded his towel and dried his own hair. Then he slipped out of his jacket and hung it on a hook next to the door.

The woman moved her hands to the back of Bear's neck and waited until the dog lowered his head, indicating his consent. Then she gently dried his muzzle and ears. The dog stood perfectly still; Reese could see from his posture that he was enjoying the rub-down. He could feel himself relaxing, too. The bruise on her cheek was vicious, but her manner convinced him that she wasn't traumatized by the assault. Seeing it brought up all the old feelings, the old reactions. But watching her with Bear, he was able to let some of it go. The man who had hurt Christine wasn't coming back.

She'd seen to that all on her own.

Christine moved to dry Bear's legs. Instead of grabbing his foot, she tapped him gently behind the knee and he put his paw politely in her hand. When it was dry, they repeated the process with the other front paw, and then the back ones. When she reached under to dry his belly, Bear licked her bruised cheek, just once, very gently.

He acted as if he'd known her since he was a puppy.

Christine chuckled. "What's your name, beautiful?"

"That's Bear." He draped the towel around his neck and toed out of his wet shoes without untying them.

"He's gorgeous."

"He knows." Reese shook his head. "You're embarrassing me," he told the dog.

"He can't help being a sweetheart. Look at that face." Christine stood up. Bear immediately sat at her feet. "Okay. Whatcha need?"

Carefully, John reached into his pocket, cupped his little passenger in his hand, and held it out to her.

She regarded him with open suspicion for a long moment before she put her own hand out. He put the kitten gently in her palm. Christine squeaked, but he held on, steadied her until she looked closer and saw that it wasn't a rodent. "Bear found him in a trash can."

She stroked the kitten's back lightly. It was still breathing, but it didn't move. "He can't be more than a couple days old. Were there others?"

"No."

Christine lifted the kitten and stroked it against her unbruised cheek. Scent-marking, Reese thought, and wondered if she knew why she was doing it. Bear stood up and danced in a circle around her, then sat down again, watching, waiting. "We need to figure out some way to feed you, baby."

"Medicine dropper?" John suggested.

"For starters, anyhow." She went into the backroom, threw the dog's towel into the tub, and grabbed a clean washcloth. She put the cloth and then the kitten into Reese's hand and rummaged through the drawers. "No, wait, I've got something better." She moved back past him, into the living room, and opened the drawers under her computer set-up. She came up with a small sterile package. Then she moved to the kitchen.

Reese followed her. He was pleased to see that there actually was an ice pack in the sink. He bent to examine the package. It was a plastic syringe with a curved tip, without a needle. Christine turned from the refrigerator with a small carton of cream in her hand. "It's for glue," she said.

"I never doubted you," Reese assured her. The girl had been a heroin addict, and he knew Finch held a perpetual low-grade concern that she'd relapse. But it had been more than ten years ago; John didn't worry. Much.

She poured some cream into a cup, then diluted it with warm tap water. "I'm sure the Goggle will have better ideas about feeding, but this will do for now." She opened the syringe, then took the bundled kitten out of his hand. "Do you want some dry clothes?"

"I doubt you have anything in my size."

Christine raised one eyebrow.

"Or maybe you do," he conceded.

She gestured with her head toward her bedroom. "Remote in the bedside table. Press _aux -8-1-5-aux-aux- cable- enter_. Watch your toes."

Curious, Reese went into the bedroom. The last time he'd been there, she'd had a standard queen-sized bed on a battered four-poster wooden frame with legs. The frame had been replaced now by a more modern one with a boxed-in wooden bottom. He found the remote and entered the code. There was a distinct 'snap' and then the entire side of the apparently solid wooden frame slid out about three inches. He crouched and pulled it out the rest of the way to reveal a large concealed drawer. It was pristinely organized and well-stocked with new items, all of them undoubtedly in his size.

There were dress shoes and sturdy boots. Three each v-neck white t-shirts, boxer briefs, black socks. A pair of sleep pants, a pair of gym shorts, and two solid-colored T's. Jeans, casual cotton slacks, and dress slacks. A polo shirt, a long-sleeved jersey, and white dress shirt. A black tie. A windbreaker. A cheap cell phone, new in the package. An envelope that held, at a glance, roughly five thousand dollars in small bills.

No guns, he noted, and no ID.

If the stash was discovered, by Agent Donnelly or anyone else, all it proved was that Christine Fitzgerald kept men's clothes hidden under her bed.

He wondered if there was a drawer on the other side full of Finch-sized apparel. It seemed likely.

Reese sighed. When Finch disappeared, he'd tried to call Christine and gotten no answer. He'd called Chaos, and Zubec had told him the woman was in Argentina. The barista said she'd be checking her e-mail, but Reese had let it go. It hadn't seemed likely that she knew enough about their operation to be of much assistance. The fact that Finch had a stash here told John that evaluation was wrong.

Or maybe it didn't. This woman has a special and deep-rooted loyalty to Finch; if he'd asked her to hide some clothes for him, she would have agreed with no questions asked.

After all this time, John thought, he still didn't know much about how Finch operated, much less how he thought.

He took the casual slacks and the polo shirt, some dry socks and the shoes. He also grabbed the jacket for later. Then he pushed the drawer shut and went into the bathroom to change. He rolled his wet clothes neatly in the towel and set the bundle at the side of the sink. Fitzgerald was compulsively neat – probably diagnosable, clinically compulsive – and he consciously followed her example. It just seemed like good manners.

When he went back out, Christine was sitting on the couch, hunched over the kitten in her lap, and Bear was sitting at her feet, watching anxiously.

"Finch has been here," he said.

Christine held the kitten on his back and prodded its tiny mouth with the tip of the syringe. The cream mixture rolled down his nuzzle, but none of it seemed to go in. "I went to Atlantic City for three days with a sailor, and that was there when I got back."

Reese sat down on the couch next to her, stroked the kitten's belly with his fingertip. "That's disturbing."

"It should be." Christine shrugged. "But somehow it doesn't bother me that he rearranged the furniture."

"Not that. Atlantic City. What's a nice Army brat like you doing chasing _sailors_?"

She glanced at him, smiled briefly. "I'm a sucker for good posture, shiny shoes and three-day passes."

"Good to remember."

Christine shifted the angle of the syringe tip. The kitten turned its head away. "We should see a vet in the morning, get her checked out."

There was a very good chance, John realized, that if they couldn't get him to eat, or at least hydrate, the kitten would be dead by morning. For the first time he considered that bringing it to Christine wasn't a good idea at all.

Bear whined, very softly.

If this kitten dies, Reese thought, I'm going to have two broken hearts on my hands. "Let's try this," he murmured. He turned the kitten over, so that its belly rested on Christine's palm. She tried the syringe again, from slightly above, and this time it seemed like a little of the cream actually went in.

After several more attempts and several very long minutes, the kitten's tongue came out and lapped at the drops of cream.

"There we go," Christine breathed.

Once he got the idea, the kitten drank steadily. Cream still dripped down his tiny muzzle, but some of it definitely went into his mouth. "He's getting the hang of it," Reese said.

She glanced up, smiled again. Though his words had been casual, he could tell she knew he'd been deeply concerned about the silly little thing. "I think he might be a she."

"I didn't really check." Reese sat back, ridiculously relieved as the feeding continued. He blew out a long breath. "How was Argentina?"

Her smiled brightened. "It was fantastic. I found our boy, stalked him for most of two weeks. He seems happy. Safe, anyhow." She gestured with her head to her computer center. "There are pictures, if you want to see them."

John rolled to his feet and walked over to the giant drop-down screens the Fitzgerald worked on. There were fifteen different things running, but he didn't see the pictures.

"Zelda," Christine called, "show Mr. Reese the file 'Argentina Boy'."

"You got it," the computer answered, in her completely human-sounding British accent. The first picture popped up on the screen in front of him.

Bear glanced over when the computer spoke, but nothing more. John wondered if the dog even registered the voice as words, or if it was simply some computer noise to him. He knew dogs could recognize a human voice over the telephone or television, but Zelda's voice had never been human. There had probably been studies about it. He could ask Finch.

But he wouldn't. Because Finch would give him _that_ look.

He turned his attention back to the pictures, tapped the screen and let them scroll slowly. They had first seen the boy tortured and crying in a child pornography video on a hidden web. He was older in Christine's pictures, and he was smiling. He was playing on a beach with a dog of his own. Kicking a soccer ball. Sitting at a lunch table with friends. He seemed fit, healthy. Most importantly, as she'd said, he was safe.

The Machine hadn't saved this particular boy, not directly. He'd already been rescued in an Interpol raid long before Finch and Reese got involved. But his image had remained, floating around the eternal internet, and his face had been the one that got Christine's attention and put her life in danger. Because of that, the whole kiddie porn ring had been exposed and perhaps five hundred other abused, terrified children had been saved.

That had not, Reese thought with great satisfaction, been a bad day's work. He let the feeling wash over him. It was easy to forget, sometimes, how good it felt when they won big.

He closed the pictures, glanced around the screen. There was a live feed from the café below. A dozen kids were there now, mostly young teens, some actually studying, most just socializing. The Chaos after-school homework program.

He glanced toward the couch. Christine was still feeding the kitten, and Bear remained steadfast at her feet. The bruise troubled him. She could have been badly hurt. You don't protect a child with your own body …

He glanced at his wrist. There would always be a scar there. He'd torn it to shreds trying to get out of the handcuffs to save Leila.

But Christine wasn't him, and she shouldn't take chances like that.

_Don't tell me what you believe_, Reese thought. _Show me what you __**do**__ and I will tell you what you believe._ All around him was evidence of what Christine Fitzgerald believed. Programs for school kids. Free networks for libraries and health care clinics. Assistance for bewildered veterans trying to navigate the VA's arcane benefits system. Help for anyone who asked for it, and for anyone who needed it and couldn't ask. Whatever she could do, wherever she saw a chance, to make someone's life a little easier.

She could not have turned her back on the crying child in the airport, any more than she could ignore the screaming boy on a fragment of a film on a computer. She wore her bruise like a badge of honor, and as much as John hated to admit it, she was right.

She had turned out so well, when she so easily could have become …

John turned quickly, pretended to look at the other screen so that he could turn his back to Christine. Then he closed his eyes, tried to catch his breath. He was usually good at understanding his own motivations, but this one caught him off guard.

He knew why he was here.

He would have come here whether Bear had found the kitten or not. He'd been headed here from the minute he left the library. He would have let her think he was just showing off his new dog. Or that Fusco had told him about the incident at the airport and he was checking up on her. He would have said anything to explain his presence. But he'd absolutely needed to see Christine Fitzgerald. He'd needed it desperately. And he knew exactly why.

… when she so easily could have become just like Root.

Their backgrounds were eerily similar. They could have been some demented psychology experiment. Both had been born into dysfunctional families. Both were highly intelligent and gifted with an almost super-human talent with computers. Both had witnessed an intensely personal tragedy when they were fourteen years old.

Both were secretive and paranoid. Both frequently used their computer skills in illegal ways. Both had had multiple identities.

Both were devoted fans of Harold Finch and his work.

But when Root's friend disappeared, Root had set out to punish the man responsible. When Christine's father had been killed, she'd set out to punish herself. And when Harold had managed to halt Christine's rush to self-destruction, she had turned her abilities to fixing the world, or at least her tiny corner of it. Root, on the other hand, had set her sights on _ruling_ the world — Reese assumed that's what she wanted, anyhow — and was willing to steal, kidnap, torture and kill to achieve that goal.

Samantha Groves had deceived and betrayed them. It was not the first time Reese and Finch had been fooled by a Number. But what Root had done had nearly cost Reese his only friend. He should have been smarter. He should have known. Somehow, he should have detected her deception before it put Finch's life in danger.

He was deeply troubled by his failure. And worse, deeply frightened.

If he was going to continue to function, if he was going to get back on top of his game, he needed to put those feelings aside. He needed to learn whatever lessons the episode offered, and then he needed to move on. But it was easier said than done, when it had nearly cost Finch so much.

Though she did not know it, Christine Fitzgerald was his living antidote. She was the anti-Root, the other side of the mirror. The light to Root's darkness.

She didn't need to know that. And Reese didn't need her to say or do anything in particular. He just needed her to _be_, exactly as she was and who she was.

_Finch needs her, too,_ he thought. _He needs to see her, to spend time with her. He needs to remember that he saved her. Twice. To remember that hundreds of children are safe today because he once helped a talented young junkie instead of turning his back on her. He needs to be reminded that while some of the consequences of his actions have been terrible, some have been very, very good. He needs to know what I know. It will help him get through this._

John took a deep breath, swallowed hard. He glanced over his shoulder. Christine was still intent on the kitten; she apparently hadn't noticed his mental absence. He looked around at the other processes Zelda was running, hoping for a distraction. The largest was a map of Manhattan, with multiple overlays. "You looking for real estate?" He was surprised that his voice sounded convincingly casual.

"Starting to," she answered. And then, "Don't push it."

Reese nodded. He and Finch and Fusco had all taken a shot at getting her to move out of this apartment – the one over the bar where her father had been shot dead years before. He hadn't thought it would be this easy. "Wouldn't dream of it. But I know this guy who knows every inch of the city. He's kind of a hermit, but I can hook you up, if you want."

"You think he knows the tunnel systems?"

"Tunnels. Probably." Reese studied the map in a new light. Old subway lines, and new ones, overlaid with new construction sites. Now that he knew what she was looking for, it made more sense. "You still think you need tunnels?"

"To feel safe? Yes." From her tone, there was no negotiating that point.

Still, it was progress. Reese returned to the couch. The kitten's feeding had slowed down. She finally turned her head away entirely. Christine put the syringe down and put the kitten on her knee. Bear stood up and moved closer. He wagged his tail and danced, eager but hesitant.

"Bear," Reese said, "settle down."

The dog looked at him, then back at the woman. Then he moved forward, slowly, carefully, as if he expected to be told no. Instead, Christine moved her hands back. Bear leaned and very gingerly took the kitten in his mouth. He looked up at her again. She sat still, silent. He carried the kitten a few feet away, lay her gently on the rug, and proceeded to lick her all over. The kitten's mouth opened in protest, but no sound came out.

Reese looked at Christine. She watched them with amusement, but without concern. She knew perfectly well that Bear could snap the kitten in half, but she seemed absolutely confident that he wouldn't.

She had been that way with Reese, the first time they'd met. Perfectly aware that he could hurt or kill her without much effort, and perfectly confident that he would do no such thing. Christine Fitzgerald was a confident judge of character, and apparently that extended to dogs as well as people.

Reese knew that abused children, particularly those with alcoholic parents, learned very early how to assess people and situations at a glance. Sometimes their lives depended on that ability. That Christine's talent was so finely honed and deeply ingrained was, frankly, sad.

But as he would have told Finch, he reminded himself, she was here and safe and no one was hurting her any more. Not even the idiot at the airport.

The bruise still made him cringe. He would much rather have had it on his own face.

When Bear was satisfied that his little charge was clean, he lay down with his front paws on each side of the kitten. Then he scooted forward until the tiny cat was snuggled against his chest. He put his head down on his left paw, so that the kitten was covered but not crushed.

The dog sighed, apparently content.

"Your attack dog," Christine said, "thinks he's a big pussy cat."

"I'm embarrassed," Reese repeated, without meaning it.

"I won't tell anyone."

He sighed. "I could go get your some, I don't know, cat litter? Whatever else you need."

She glanced towards the window. The rain still poured down, though the thunder was quieter. "She can sleep on a towel tonight, and we'll forage tomorrow." Christine considered the dog and cat for a moment. "I suppose you want to see the tunnels here."

It hadn't actually occurred to Reese. He knew there were tunnels under the bar-turned-cyber-cafe; Christine and Finch had used them to escape earlier in the year. He had wanted to see them, for possible future use. That hadn't been his goal today. Still, it seemed like a more respectable excuse for his visit than just bringing a tiny kitten. "I hadn't planned on this, though," he answered, gesturing to the furry duo. "I suppose they'll be alright."

"Looks like." Christine stood up, carried the last of the cream and the syringe to the kitchen and rinsed them out. Then she went over to the computer desk and retrieved her tablet. She set it on the coffee table, adjusted it so that it was aimed at the sleeping pair. "And we can keep an eye on them, most of the time." She put on her shoes, then retrieved a flashlight and a key from a mug on the top shelf of the cupboard. "This is for you, anyhow."

Reese turned the key in his hand. It was small, common. The keychain had a small flower painted on it, a daisy. DaisyB had been Christine's name, in her distant hacker past. "Thank you. You have one for Harold?"

She raised one eyebrow, and he realized it had been a stupid question. Finch had probably had one for weeks.

He felt just a little bit jealous.

He rubbed Bear's ears and told him to stay. The dog did not even lift his head; he sighed happily and snuggled closer to his kitten. Definitely a bit embarrassing, and also endearing. So the vicious beast had a tender side. So did his owner. So what?


	3. Chapter 3

John followed Christine down to the café, and then to the basement. She showed him where the hidden door was, and then the secret hallway to the vast underground space that had once been a speakeasy. She pointed out the markings over the door and explained how they worked: A mark over the hinges indicated an exit that was concealed from the outside; over the doorknob meant that the opening was exposed. Reese nodded and pocketed his key, ready to explore. But Christine pointed the flashlight beam at the ground and gestured for him to wait.

He heard a noise, but it was so soft that he wouldn't have recognized it as a man approaching. Christine, turned, unsurprised. "Hey, Pony," she said quietly.

"Daisy." The man moved very quickly and was on her before Reese could intervene. But it wasn't an attack anyhow; it was an embrace. Despite the man's shabby appearance and pervasive odor, Christine hugged him back tightly. "Missed you, girl. Who hit 'cha?"

"Idiot at the airport. It's handled. How are you?"

The man stepped back and Reese got a good look at him in the flashlight beam. He was nearly John's height, but very thin and maybe ten years older. His hair was long and tangled, equal parts red and gray; his face was mostly hidden behind a full, unkempt beard. His clothes were faded and ragged, and he wore several different layers. He had the distinct smell of the street. But his eyes were sharp. He looked Reese up and down. "I'm alright," he told the girl. "Who's your friend?"

"This is John," Christine said evenly. "He's okay. John, Pony,"

Reese held his hand out. Pony considered for a long moment, then took it. John shook firmly, exactly as he would any Wall Street titan. He saw the man register that he hadn't pulled back. They both nodded.

"Good you're back," Pony said, to the woman. He released John's hand and vanished into the darkness.

He was very, very quiet.

Reese took the flashlight and looked around, getting his bearings. Then he shut it off and let his eyes adjust to the semi-darkness. "How many live down here?"

"Twenty or so, all the time," Christine told him. "More when it's cold, of course. Maybe twenty more have keys, just use it for pass-thru."

"It's good space."

"It stays dry, most of the time. Do you want the tour, or do you want to explore on your own?"

"I'll explore. You point out anything I miss."

"Okay."

The speakeasy itself was large, with a high ceiling. Smaller tunnels let away from it in all directions like the legs of a spider. There were, Christine said, nearly than thirty entrances, all secured, most concealed from the outside. The complex stretched under six city blocks. There was almost no way to trap a person down here. As bolt holes went, Reese decided, this one was fantastic.

He could see why Christine was reluctant to leave the security it offered.

"Why aren't there more people here?" he wondered aloud.

"It's got a bad rep," she answered. "When I lived down here there were probably three hundred hard-core junkies. With all the mayhem that that implies."

"Where'd they go?"

"Hard-core junkies," she repeated. "Most of them are dead. The rest of us got clean." She considered, then nodded. "Which is why Random's allowed to rearrange my furniture, I suppose."

Finch – he'd called himself Harold Wren then – had taken her off the street and forced her, literally kicking and screaming, into rehab. According to Finch it had saved her life, and she sounded like she agreed.

Reese paused, looking at the wall to his left. His instinct told him there ought to be an opening . It took him nearly two minutes to find it, but it was there. He nodded in satisfaction. Then he looked to the girl. She had waited in silence while he found it. She did silence as comfortably as Finch did.

"Once the old guys got a toehold down here," she continued, as if there had been no break, "they started policing the place better, installing the locks."

"Which you paid for," Reese guessed.

"They were cheap enough, in bulk."

In the next tunnel to the right, three men hovered over a barrel fire. The smoke vented through a grid to the street. They nodded to the woman, stared at Reese in mild challenge. He nodded to them and moved on.

"How long were you on the street?" Christine asked easily.

"Four months," Reese answered at once. No point in lying about it; she knew the truth from his behavior. But it wasn't like him to be so open. And then he added, "And then Finch rescued me. By what could technically be called kidnapping."

"Ahhhh." She seemed amused, but not surprised. "So he makes a habit of it."

"You were his first. You taught him well."

She shook her head. "Nope. After me he should never had done it again."

"You turned out all right. Eventually."

"Eventually."

She was easy to talk to. She was observant and hellishly smart; like Finch, it would be difficult to deceive her. But there was something else. Her manner told him that if he hadn't answered, she wouldn't have insisted. She would have let it slide.

That made it easier not to resist.

He remembered how she had touched the back of Bear's leg and waited for him to put his paw in her hand. She treated Reese the same way.

And he responded the same way. Put his paw trustingly, willingly in her hand. Remember this, Reese told himself. She may be on your side right now, but she is uniquely dangerous. Or useful.

Partly from curiosity, and partly to shift the conversation, he asked, "All those junkies. You were just a kid. How did you survive?"

"I was small and harmless," Christine answered immediately. "When you're no threat to anyone, ninety percent of people just ignore you."

"But the other ten percent are predators."

She nodded. "When you're small and harmless and _smarter_ than everyone else, you find the biggest predator and you make yourself useful to him."

"Hmmm." Reese stopped and looked upward. There was an outline of light in the ceiling. "Trap door?"

"Uh-huh. You're good at this."

"Thanks."

They moved on. "His name was Sharps," Christine volunteered unexpectedly. "The first one. He didn't have any veins left in his arms or legs. But I could hit one in his back or neck without killing him. That made me indispensable. So he protected me." She shrugged. "Until he got septic and died. And then there was somebody else."

Find the biggest predator and make yourself indispensable to him, Reese mused. It was an obvious answer. Then it struck him: That was what Finch had done. Finch was small and apparently harmless, and so much smarter. So he'd found the biggest predator and made himself indispensable to him.

But Finch hadn't meant to make himself indispensible. What had he said at the train station?_ I really didn't intend for you to come and find me, Mr. Reese._ He'd genuinely thought that Reese would go on chasing the Numbers without him. That Reese wouldn't do everything in his power to get him back.

_Which just went to prove that Mr. I-Know-Exactly-Everything-About-You didn't know exactly everything, after all._

Reese had flown halfway across the country looking for Finch. He'd shot up big chunks of New York City, and would cheerfully have torn the rest of it apart. How many times, this week alone, had he said simply, 'I need to find my friend'. Not I'm trying to, or I want to. I _need_ to.

What he'd said in the warehouse had been mostly true, too. He only had one friend. And maybe that was the explanation. Maybe that was all there was to it.

_He saved my life. He gave me a purpose. He gave me his trust – in tiny little doses, but more than he gives to anyone else. _

Once a man had threatened to kill Reese's friends and his family. John had answered, with perfect calm, that he didn't have any friends, and no family left either.

But that wasn't true anymore. Finch had somehow become both.

He is undeniably indispensable to Reese now.

"John," Christine said, very quietly.

He looked at her, startled. Her hand hovered near his arm, but she didn't touch him until his eyes acknowledged her approach. Like with the dog. No. Like with her dangerously insane father. He made his face relax, his voice soften. "Sorry. Drifted off for a minute."

"You missed one."

Reese smirked at himself and retraced his steps until he found the entrance he'd missed. It wasn't very well-hidden, and he'd walked right past it. A stupid mistake. Embarrassing. Except Christine knew why he'd made the mistake, knew he'd been lost in his thoughts. Which was somehow more troubling.

"I met this woman named Joan," he said, surprising both of them. "She was … little. Harmless. She looked after me. I never thought about her being indispensable so I'd protect her. I just thought she was kind."

"Maybe she was," Christine answered. "Probably she was. What I did isn't what everybody does."

"True," Reese said, unconvinced. He cataloged the tunnel in his mind and moved on to the next one. "And she never needed it. But I would have protected her."

"You protected me when I hadn't done a damn thing for you," Christine pointed out. "You're not …" She stopped and considered her words. "You're not really a predator. You like to think you are, but you're not. Not a conventional one, anyhow."

Reese looked at her and let his face be just a little dangerous. "Then what am I?"

"You're a soldier," she pronounced simply. "You _can_ be dangerous and aggressive, but that's how you can be, not who you are."

A soldier. It was such a simple word. But the way she said it – the way she meant it, in the very best sense of that word. In the oldest meaning it had for John …

…a little boy running barefoot on the lawn, chasing fireflies in the dusk with the neighbor kids. All of them flopping down onto the grass and the inevitable discussion children had while they looked up at the emerging stars. 'I wanna be an astronaut.' 'I wanna be a nurse.' 'I wanna be a fireman.' And for John, always and forever the first answer: 'I wanna be a soldier.' It had never changed. Not once, in all the years since. _I wanna be a soldier._

Honorable. Brave. Honest. Strong. Protecting the weak …

_I think all you ever wanted to do was protect people_, Finch had said, with Reese's arm at his throat.

It had all gotten distorted along the way. Protecting people became perverted into destroying people. It was bad enough in a war that he quickly saw was unnecessary, based on a lie. It was worse with the CIA. But by then it was too late. _Your country needs you, John. The greater good, John._ _We are the darkness, John._ The distortions. The outright lies. The things he'd believed. The things he'd done …

_I wanna be a soldier. All you ever wanted to do was protect people._

Finch had done more than drag John out of the street and give him a job. He'd done more than save his life.

He'd given John a way back his better self.

_This path leads out of the darkness. If I can stay on it, I can be someone that little boy would at least recognize. Maybe, someday, someone that little boy would be proud of. But I can't get there without Finch. I need my friend. _

Finch was indispensable. And John knew exactly why.

It all clicked into place.

A simple word from a woman who was all but a stranger had put his world right. He looked at Christine again. She was watching him with those uncanny blue eyes. Calm. Patient. He wondered what the hell emotions had just flashed over his face. Whether she knew how profoundly her words had affected him. It seemed likely. She didn't miss much.

But she didn't comment. Because she was kind, too. She understood that there were places he could not go, things he could not say aloud. And she let him be.

Reese cleared his throat. "You're very good at assessing people."

Her eyes dropped. There's the line, Reese though, surprised. There's where _she_ stops being open. She can talk about the junkie she was, but not about the abused child she'd been before that. The one who'd gotten so good at reading people in order to survive.

"Have you ever been wrong?"

She hesitated. "Yeah." Very softly.

He let her be, too. They walked a bit more.

John slowed, then stopped, staring at a grate half-way up the wall. He pointed. "There?"

"Yes," Christine said. "But it narrows. I can get up it, or Bear can. I don't think you can."

"I'm very flexible."

"Can you dislocate both shoulders?"

"Maybe." Reese shook his head. "Do I want to? Not so much."

"Exit of last resort." Christine moved over to the grate and pulled out her cell phone. "Signal's always bad down here, but if you can see daylight, you can usually get a bar or two." She got a picture from her tablet, though it jerked and froze badly. Bear and the kitten were still cuddled together.

"I didn't even think to ask. If you don't like cats …"

"I'm keeping the cat, John."

"Just checking."

She smiled and took his arm. They continued their circuit of the tunnels.

"I can see why you don't want to leave this," Reese said, when they reached their original door again. "It's fantastic."

"When my dad was alive …" Christine hesitated, and Reese could tell she was surprised to have edged over her own comfort line, but she shook her head and went on, "… we lived two blocks from the north end of the tunnels. I didn't come down here then, not into the main part, but I used to hide inside the doorways sometimes. It was always …" She stopped again. "I'll find something. There are tunnels all over the city."

Reese took his new key and opened the door. They moved through the basement and climbed the stairs. "Of course," she continued, "the tunnels that I really want to find are the ones that aren't on any of those charts. The ones that don't exist. But I'll figure it out."

"Like I said," Reese offered, "I know a guy."

"I'll remember."


	4. Chapter 4

As they crossed the café, Zubec gestured them over. He didn't say anything, just glared at the girl's purple cheek. Then he pushed two steaming mugs and a plate of biscotti across the bar to them.

"Thanks," Reese said. He took one mug and the plate. Christine took the other mug and they went to the elevator.

It looked like creamed coffee, but it smelled like Irish whiskey. Reese took a sip on the way up and found that it tasted like heaven. "Oh, that's good."

"He likes you," Christine said.

He took another long sip. Coffee and real cream, whiskey and … brown sugar? "I think I love him," Reese answered.

"I'll let him know," she teased gently.

"He's worried about you."

"He's always worried about me."

"Not without some cause."

"True."

Bear lifted his head and wagged his tail happily when they entered the apartment. "How's the baby?" Reese asked. He rubbed the dog's ears and slipped him a treat. Then he settled onto the couch and dunked one of the biscotti in his coffee. It was delicious, too.

Christine paused at the door to kick her shoes off. It was a habit Reese had noticed before; he suspected that if she lived anywhere but New York City she would be barefoot most of the time. The little boy running in the grass flashed through his mind again. She needed a house with a yard. Grass between her toes would do her good.

She wandered over to her screens and checked her many running processes. Outside the rain had slowed to a steady hard drizzle.

"Your hour's up," Reese said, gesturing toward the ice pack in the sink.

"Yes, dear," Christine answered. "In a minute, dear."

Reese sat back, wrapped both hands around his coffee mug. He was emotionally exhausted, but he felt centered again, in a way that he hadn't since Finch had vanished. Let the genius be cranky for a few more days; it didn't matter now. John understood their relationship again. As much as he ever had. Finch was indispensable. John knew why. He could live with that.

Christine made herself a fresh icepack, then settled on the other end of the couch with her coffee in one hand and the ice against her cheek with the other. He offered her a biscotti, but she waved it off. It probably hurt to open her mouth that wide. Badge of honor, Reese reminded himself, and let it be.

She didn't seem to need any conversation from him, at the moment. It was very peaceful.

This, John thought suddenly. When he'd asked Finch if he'd ever craved a more conventional lifestyle, this was what he'd had in mind. His dog and his cat sleeping at his feet. The rain outside the window. A warm drink in his hand and nowhere he had to be. His beautiful wife at the other end of the couch, content to listen to the rain. Maybe a baby sleeping in the bassinet in the corner, a toddler crawling around on the rug …

He sighed heavily. It was all illusion. The beautiful woman at the end of the couch wasn't his wife. He barely knew her. There was no baby, no bassinet. No toddler.

The cat wasn't his anymore. The way things were looking, he wasn't even sure about the dog.

And then, of course, his phone rang. He answered it without even looking at the screen. "Hello, Finch."

"We have a new Number, Mr. Reese."

"Of course we do." He stood up, walked to the kitchen and put his mug on the counter. "I'll be there shortly."

He put his phone away, went to the bathroom to retrieve his bundle of wet clothes. When he returned, Christine held his wet shoes and jacket in a plastic bag with one hand, and a set of car keys with the other. "Want these?" she asked, jingling the keys.

He did, actually, very much. "You don't mind?"

"I'm sure as hell not going out in this."

He took the keys and then the bag. "I'll bring it back, I promise."

"Uh-huh."

"Probably even in one piece."

"Uh-huh. I'm not worried."

"Uh-huh," Reese replied. "Of course you're not." Something occurred to him. "Listen. If you find tunnels that you want to check out, why don't you come find a big predator to go with you?"

"I'm a big girl, Mr. Reese."

"No, you're really not." He moved the ice pack, touched her bruised face very lightly, replaced the ice. "And besides, it's kind of fun."

Christine thought about it, finally nodded. "I'll call you if I come up with something worth seeing."

"Good." Reese picked up the leash and gestured to the dog. "Let's go, Bear."

The dog lifted his head, but did not get up.

"Bear," John said firmly.

The dog whined. Then he pushed himself up on his front paws, so he was sitting with the kitten between his feet. He reached down to lick the little thing again. Looked at John.

"He's welcome to stay," Christine said quietly.

Reese sighed. "He only knows commands in Dutch." He wasn't really concerned about that; if Fusco could figure it out, he was sure Christine could.

And she did, just that fast. "I have the Google. And he doesn't seem to have any trouble communicating."

The kitten wriggled, and Bear leaned down to nuzzle it again.

John shook his head. On impulse, he took out his phone and snapped a picture of the two of them. "She needs a name, you know."

"We'll come up with something tomorrow."

She didn't add, 'if she's still alive', but Reese heard it. He couldn't argue.

"One night," he told Bear sternly. "You can stay one night, and you'd better behave yourself. No pizza, no soda, no scary movies." He handed the leash to Christine. "He likes to chew paper. Especially books."

"I'll keep an eye on him. But I don't think he's going to leave her side."

"I'll come get him in the morning." He went over and patted the dog one last time, and then the kitten. Then he took his clothes and left the apartment.

XXX

Christine Fitzgerald's car was an utterly ordinary old two-door Ford, black, dirty and dented, with rust spots and a slightly bent back bumper. It was a five speed. Reese had to slide the driver's seat all the way back to work the clutch. The interior was immaculate, of course. It had no radio, but it had after-market slots for two USB drives and a phone jack.

No GPS, and likely no way to track it. At least, no way that anyone other than Christine knew about.

Reese didn't think to look under the hood. At the first corner he wished he had. The unassuming little car had pick-up that would have made Mario Andretti weep for joy. He guessed it had something from the V-8 Hemi collection, and how the hell she'd gotten it shoehorned under that hood was either a mystery or a miracle.

On the way to the library, Reese began to plot how he could get his dog back without giving up the car.


	5. Chapter 5

Finch was taping a newspaper clipping next to a picture to the board as Reese entered the main room of the library. "You've lost your dog, Mr. Reese." He didn't sound at all saddened by that development.

"He made a new friend. They're having a sleepover."

Harold looked him up and down. "I wasn't aware that Miss Fitzgerald even liked dogs."

Reese didn't know if his enigmatic employer had identified his destination by the fresh clothes he was wearing or if he'd tracked him somehow. It didn't really matter; one way or another, Finch always knew just a little more than John was comfortable with. He joined him at the board and held his phone out. "This is the friend."

Harold barely glanced at it. "He's befriended a rat?"

"It's a kitten. Newborn. He found it in a trash can."

"How … lovely. I'm surprised you didn't drag it back here and expect me to look after it for you."

"I thought about it," Reese admitted cheerfully. "But I figured two furry creatures in one week would get me banned."

"You thought correctly." Finch looked at the board again, but Reese could see the tension in his body. "What did you tell her?"

"The kitten?"

"Miss Fitzgerald."

"Nothing."

Finch glanced sideways at him.

"She asked how you were. I said you were fine. That was the end of it."

"Did you contact her while I was missing?"

"She was in Argentina until yesterday."

"Is that a no?" Finch insisted.

"That's a no."

"Good." He turned and went back to his computers. But he looked up at Reese for a long moment. "Is _she_ okay?" he finally asked.

"Y-yeah," Reese said uncertainly.

"Mr. Reese."

"She's fine, I promise." John sighed. "Do you have access to surveillance cameras inside LaGuardia?"

Finch pursed his lips, turned his attention back to his keyboard. For a moment Reese thought he was ignoring the question. Then the genius answered, "I do now. Can you be more specific?"

"International baggage claim. Yesterday."

The fingers flew with confidence. "What time yesterday?"

"I don't know."

Finch scowled and continued to type. Reese went behind him, leaned one hand on the desk to look over his shoulder. Harold ran the recording on two screens at high speed. One ran forward from noon, the other backward. "What am I looking for?"

"You'll know when you see it."

Finch glared at him briefly. "What did she do now?"

"That." Reese pointed.

Finch stopped the playback, rewound, started the display at normal speed. There was no sound, but it wasn't necessary. A dark-haired man dragged a crying toddler through the crowd toward the baggage carousel. A thin woman tugged at the man's arm. He said something, half-raised his hand, and she retreated. Then he shouted at the toddler again, hauled him up by one arm, flipped the child over and hit him hard and repeatedly on the backside.

Reese hadn't noticed Christine in the video before; she had her back to the camera and she was at the far edge of the frame. But before the second blow had fallen, she was pushing thought the crowd to stand right in front of the man. She waved both arms as she talked, fast and probably loudly. The man dropped the child and screamed at her instead. Christine didn't back down; she stood practically on his toes and screamed back.

He drew his arm back and hit her in the face with the back of his fist.

Finch drew a sharp breath.

"She's okay," Reese repeated firmly.

On the screen, a dozen men from the crowd pulled the attacker away, not gently. At least two hit him as they dragged him back. Probably more hits landed after he disappeared under the pile. Security arrived, and then real cops.

The pale woman picked up the wailing toddler and slipped away.

Finch stabbed at the keyboard, freezing the image. "Mr. Reese …" he breathed, horrified.

"She's _okay_," Reese stated again. "She's got a big bruise, but she's fine. She provoked him on purpose." He sighed again. "She could have ducked."

Finch looked at him, desperation in his eyes. "The man …?"

"He's in jail now, and when New York is done with him, Ohio wants him back. It's been resolved, Finch. She took care of it. All by herself." He was still angry, but he was also relieved. "And she's fine. She's kind of smug about it, actually."

"Then why am I looking at this tape?"

Reese straightened. "Because I needed to be sure," he finally admitted.

"That she wasn't lying to you," Harold completed.

"Yes."

Finch was quiet for a moment. John knew he was thinking about Jessica Arndt. Or worried about John thinking about her. Maybe he should have tried to find the tape on his own. Or made Fusco get him the arrest report. But he'd wanted to get Christine in front of Finch, and the tape was the fastest way. Worrying about Christine was better for him than dwelling on Root.

But he hadn't planned on Finch having to worry about _him_, too.

"Are you alright?" Finch finally asked.

"I'm fine," Reese assured him. "Really. Who's the new number?"

Harold nodded slowly toward the board. "Martin Keleman. Bread maker. Fifteen-year employee of a bakery in Brooklyn. Married, two teenage children. His wife, Beth, is a day care worker. They've lived in the same apartment for nine years. Mediocre credit, but no alarming debts. No criminal record, no obvious vices."

"No hint why anybody would want him dead."

"None so far."

"Lovely." Reese went back to the board and looked at the picture. The man was middle-aged, with pale hair and a round face. The clipping was from a neighborhood paper, a short story about Martin and Beth celebrating their 20th wedding anniversary. They looked stiffly formal but happy. "I suppose I ought to take a drive."

"I'll send the pertinent addresses to your phone. And then see if I can learn anything more about him."

Reese nodded. He stayed where he was for a moment, glancing over the other documents Finch had gathered. There were several small clippings about the children, all sports-related. The boy played football, the girl basketball. There was a credit report, a copy of their lease. Nothing that really caught his eye, but it was good to have a solid background.

It was good to be there, to hear the keyboard behind him. To have Finch back. He gave himself a minute just to enjoy it. A good day's work.

But the clicking slowed, and finally stopped. He turned; Finch was frozen, staring at the screen. "Finch?" he prompted gently. He wondered if the genius had found something truly shocking about their new Number.

"I think it would be best," Finch answered slowly, "if we had no further contact with Miss Fitzgerald."

Reese stared at him. The genius wouldn't meet his eyes. "I have to get the dog back."

Harold's eyes flicked to him. His posture clearly said, 'Why?' But his eyes returned to the screens, and when he spoke, flatly, he said, "Of course you do."

"After that," Reese said slowly, "it's your call." She was Finch's friend, after all. But he couldn't believe that the recluse was willing to give her up. "But I think you're wrong."

Finch looked up sharply. "If Root ever got her hands on Christine …"

"Why would she bother? Christine doesn't know anything about the Machine."

Their gazes stayed locked. Reese saw Finch take a deep breath. "You told her." He was jealous and angry first, and then he swore savagely at himself. Of course she knew. And the first thing he should have done when Finch was taken, _the very first thing_, was track her down and tell her that Random was in trouble and that he needed her help.

She would have been on the next plane home. She would have helped him. No questions asked. No hesitation.

If he had lost Finch because the man had kept this incredibly important secret from him …

"I didn't tell her," Finch protested. "Like our Mr. Peck — and like Root — Christine deduced the Machine's existence all on her own. Once she became aware that I wasn't dead, it was very short leap of logic to put us together."

Reese shook his head. Being pissed off about it now wouldn't help. Realizing that didn't make him any less angry. But there was a more pressing issue now. Since she already knew —especially since she already knew — it was vital to keep her in Finch's life. "She seems to have taken it in stride."

Finch looked away, back to his screens. "She understands the Machine's function. She relies on its omniscience to calm her own anxieties." He paused. "She celebrates its existence. And she asks no questions."

His voice was a little soft, a little warm. _She celebrates its existence_, Reese repeated in his mind. It sounded very much like _you're a soldier_. It carried the same meaning, the same gentle benediction.

Despite everything she knew, she didn't consider either of them to be monsters.

"Christine wouldn't betray you," Reese said. "She wouldn't help Root gain access to it."

"No, of course she wouldn't," Finch snapped. "She'd die first. Or more precisely, she'd make Root kill her first." He shook his head emphatically. "We can't risk that Root will ever locate her. And the only way to be absolutely sure of that … is to never contact her again."

Reese heard the determination in his friend's voice. It didn't quite mask the despair that lay under it. Harold didn't want to lose the young woman.

Neither of them had many friends, but Reese knew that Finch counted Christine as one of his. At the lunches John had listened in on, he hadn't learned anything new about Finch's secretive background. What he had learned was that Christine readily understood Finch's cyber-lingo and his coding shorthand. They happily swapped stories of bad programming and idiot users, epically creative hacks and equally epic failures, until Reese's eyes glazed over in boredom. Shop talk. She gave Finch a peer to talk to, or at least as near to a peer as existed for him. But there was more to it.

She made Finch smile, and once in a while even laugh out loud.

She was the only adult, outside of Will Ingram, that could touch Harold's hand without making him flinch away.

When he was with Christine Fitzgerald, Harold's 'human interaction' was not difficult.

Finch needed her. He deserved the little moments of happiness she brought into his life. And he'd lost enough, Reese decided. Root had taken too much from him already. Christine was as good for him as Root had been bad.

But the genius would do what he thought was in Christine's best interest. He would sacrifice his own happiness without hesitation to protect her. John could argue about Harold's emotional well-being until he was blue in the face. In Harold's current frame of mind that argument would only harden his resolve. The man was trying to shut himself off from the world, from his friendships, from his feelings. He was drawing away from everyone, even John_. I really didn't intend for you to come and find me, Mr. Reese._ Concerns for Christine's safety gave him an excuse to shut her out.

Reese had another argument to make, one that might actually succeed. "When I was with the Agency," he said simply, "if I went to town looking for the biggest arms dealer and I couldn't find him, I'd find the second-biggest arms dealer. Because even if he didn't know where the big guy was, I could be sure the big guy knew where he was."

Finch looked at him again. Reese thought he saw a glimmer of hope behind the glasses. He kept his voice flat, as if his reasoning were purely practical. "Root can't come at you the way she did before. She'll have to find a new approach. If she decides to find the second-best hacker in the city, that's likely to be Christine."

"Very likely," Finch conceded.

"If you read her in, Christine can help us. She moves in different circles than you do. She may spot Root before she gets close."

"I won't use Christine Fitzgerald as _bait_," Finch said firmly.

"Not as bait. As an asset. A look-out."

"Mr. Reese …"

"We agree that Christine would never help Root, if she knew who she was and what she was after. But if a stranger walked into Chaos tonight with some convincing story about …" he spread his hands, improvised, "… I don't know, her missing father, a computer tech with the Army who took brain damage when his convey hit an IED in Iraq. About how he walked out of a VA hospital and he's off his psych meds and … let's make him diabetic, too, just to ramp up the urgency. You know Christine. She would move hell and earth to help find him. Right up until she realized who Root was really after. And by then it might be too late."

"She's smarter than that," Harold protested.

"Smarter than the two of us put together? Because you and I believed every word Caroline Turing said, right up until she put a bullet in Alicia Corwin's head."

Finch turned away. His lips tightened into a very thin line. "Turing," he repeated bitterly. "The Turing test. I should have known."

"Harold," Reese said, "I know you want to protect Christine. But keeping her in the dark won't work. She knows too much already." Finch moved his head, opened his mouth, and then closed it again. "But she's smart, Harold. She hid from you for eleven years. …"

"I didn't look for her very hard."

"… and she can hide from Root, if she knows what to look for. If you tell her everything — who Root is, what she wants, how she works, how she hacks — then Christine can protect herself, and maybe help us." He paused. "If you don't, you leave her defenseless."

There was a very long silence. John watched Harold's profile closely. The man's jaw worked side to side. His hands opened and closed over the keyboard. He continued to stare at the screen. The frozen melee that had resulted from Christine taking a hit to protect a child. _Show me what you do_, John thought again, _and I'll tell you what you believe_. The image was not helping John's case.

Finally, very quietly, Finch said, "I need to think about it."

Reese let out a slow breath. He hadn't won, but he'd come as close as he was going to. "Like I said, it's your call."

Finch had promised once that he would never lie to Reese. John had made no such promise in return. If he thought Root was back and a threat to Finch, he'd go to Christine himself and telling her everything he knew. If Finch didn't like it, that was too damn bad. But for now, it was important to let Finch make these decisions for himself. To let him have as much control over his life as possible.

"I'll let you know." His voice was still soft. He wants to keep her, John thought with certainty, and I've given him a reason to let himself do it. But he was still too rattled to deal with her. She'd be kind, he realized, and Harold knows it. And that kindness, at this moment, could shatter the recluse's brittle emotions.

_Go ahead, keep her at arm's length if you need to. For a while. Just don't lock the door on her._

Finch finally moved. He pressed a single key, and Reese's phone beeped with a text message. He checked it. It contained the address of their new client's apartment and work location.

Finch pressed another button. Reese glanced over and saw that he was running the surveillance tape from the airport again. Harold shook his head grimly. "I don't know why I worry about putting her life in danger," he muttered. "She seems to revel in doing it herself."

Reese grinned briefly. _Gotcha_. He hid the expression before Finch saw it. "She knew she wasn't in any real danger." He circled behind the desk, pointed to the screen. "Look. This big guy has kids of his own. These two are probably military on leave. There's security over here. And this is, I don't know, college wrestling team?"

Harold zoomed in the view to the young men's gear. "Water polo."

"Whatever. She knew this idiot would get one hit and no more. She did the math."

"Yes." Finch looked over at him. "But she would have done the same if there had been no one there to help her."

John couldn't argue that point. "You're probably right."

Harold shook his head and shut down the screen. "What did she name him?"

"Hmmm?"

"The kitten."

"Oh. It's a female. And she doesn't have a name yet."

Finch raised one eyebrow. "The woman who names her stand-alone hard drives hasn't named her new kitten?"

Reese shrugged. "Honestly … she may not survive the night."

"Give me your phone."

Surprised, John handed his phone over.

Finch studied the picture of Bear and the kitten more closely. "She's gray all over?"

"Yes."

"And Bear found her?"

"Yes."

"Then her name is obvious, isn't it?"

Reese frowned . Then he got it. "When you put it that way, of course it is."

Finch looked at the picture again. Then he clicked to a new screen and sent a text to Christine.

BEAR FOUND HER. OBVIOUSLY HER NAME IS SMOKEY.

Reese let himself grin openly. Finch wasn't ready to contact Christine one-on-one. He was using John's phone, hiding gently behind his identity. But he was engaged again. Reese was willing to call it a win.

In a moment, Christine sent a text back.

OBVIOUSLY. BEAR APPROVES.

SHE HAS THE HANG OF EATING. LIKE A PIG. I THINK WE'LL BE OKAY.

Finch made a noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a snort, and handed the phone back. He gestured to the board. "Mr. Keleman."

"On my way." Reese strode from the library, jingling the keys to Christine's unexpectedly sweet car. When he got to the street, it was nearly dark, but the rain had stopped.

He paused and touched his earwig. Finch didn't speak, but he could hear the keyboard in the background. It was as constant and steady as John's own pulse now. Finch is in the library, and all is right with the world.

Reese grinned to himself, tossed the keys up and caught them out of the air. No, the world was not right. And it never would be, not entirely. For one thing, someone was planning to kill Mr. Keleman, or else Mr. Keleman was planning to kill someone. But Finch was safe and settling in, and John was back on the job, back on his path to the light. And the kitten was eating. The world was more right, and getting better all the time.

The End


End file.
